Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn

A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing

Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…

From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor

Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of

SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.

Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway

Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows

The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees